


smoke and mirrors

by grim_lupine



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Crying During Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Hair-pulling, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-16 00:45:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9266258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grim_lupine/pseuds/grim_lupine
Summary: “Morning — ” Yuuri says as he enters the room, and stops in his tracks.“Morning, Yuuri!” Viktor says as he turns from the stove, long-haired, slim-hipped, and beaming. He is inescapably teenaged.“...I'm going back to bed,” Yuuri says, and turns right around and retreats.[Viktor wakes up in his sixteen-year-old body; Yuuri comes to the rescue.]





	

**Author's Note:**

> are two of your three fics in this fandom de-aging fics, you might ask? why yes, yes they are
> 
> thanks to pageleaf again for enabling, encouraging and editing 
> 
> content note: viktor and yuuri have sex while viktor is in his sixteen-year-old body

Yuuri wakes up slowly, yawns and stretches in the bed, knuckles the sleep from his eyes. There's an empty space next to him where Viktor should be, but it doesn't worry him — Viktor rises earlier most times and doesn't usually feel the need to wake Yuuri when he does.

Eventually, Yuuri drags himself out of bed and heads for the kitchen, where he can hear a faint clanging signaling Viktor's presence. 

“Morning — ” Yuuri says as he enters the room, and stops in his tracks. 

“Morning, Yuuri!” Viktor says as he turns from the stove, long-haired, slim-hipped, and beaming. He is inescapably teenaged. 

“...I'm going back to bed,” Yuuri says, and turns right around and retreats.

 

Yuuri does, in fact, go back to bed, where he spends ten minutes lying flat on his back and staring at the ceiling, wondering if he can send himself back to sleep and wake up somewhere he doesn't have to deal with this.

After ten minutes, Viktor comes into the room looking bright and reassuring and nervous underneath it all in a way Yuuri never can stand to see, so they spend the _next_ ten minutes having a very therapeutic cuddling session. During this time, Yuuri reaffirms that this is, in fact, his Viktor in a younger body, and not the younger Viktor or a Viktor from another universe or any of the other myriad possibilities. This news deserves a small — _small_ — sigh of relief. It could be so much worse. Yuuri’s heard the stories.

“What do you think caused this? I mean, how do we change you back?” Yuuri asks, running his fingers through Viktor’s really unfairly glorious hair. He'd say the same to Viktor if he weren't already barely restraining his preening, as if he's heard every word in Yuuri's head.

Viktor purses his lips and looks thoughtful. “I think it's a sex thing,” he says.

Yuuri snorts. “Helpful,” he says, “considering you always think it's a sex thing.”

“Be fair,” Viktor protests. “The last time I said that was when Chris woke up with telepathy. If _that’s_ not a sex thing...”

Yuuri contemplates this in silence for a moment before he agrees. 

“How old _are_ you, anyway?” Yuuri asks. “Sixteen, seventeen?”

Viktor props himself up on his elbow to smirk down at Yuuri. “You mean you can't tell? All those years, staring at aaaaall those posters — ”

Yuuri covers his burning face with both hands while Viktor breaks into laughter. “I was your _fan_ ,” Yuuri groans, muffled. “Stop making me sound like I was peeping through your window or something.”

“Disappointingly inaccurate,” Viktor agrees. “Anyway, I'm sixteen. See, you can tell — ” 

He starts to pull down the waistband of his pants, when Yuuri has a truly bizarre, inexplicable fit and grabs his hand to stop him. 

Viktor blinks at him for a moment, before breaking into a half-amused, half-incredulous grin. “Yuuuuri,” he says. “Don’t tell me you're going to be weird about this. You know it's still me, right?”

Yuuri looks at him — _really_ looks at him. The face may be nearly elfin in its delicacy, the shoulders lacking the breadth of years, but Viktor's eyes are too knowing to carry off youth. And the smile curving his mouth — that is Viktor's smile as he knows it, wicked, certain and adult. 

“Right,” he says. “Sorry. Carry on.”

Viktor finishes pulling down his pants to his hip, and ah, there — the faint silvery scar Yuuri’s traced so often with tongue and fingers both, from when Viktor had slipped in the shower and cut himself on the jagged edge of the shower stand at sixteen.

“But I don't think my hair's long enough for seventeen,” Viktor says, shrugging. Yuuri smoothes his hand over the aforementioned hair; the silky spill of it reaches Viktor's upper back, no lower.

“Anyway, you'd better be okay with this,” Viktor says teasingly, sprawling himself back across Yuuri's chest like a large, friendly cat. “I mean, if it _is_ a sex thing, I'm going to need your help.”

Yuuri bites the corner of his mouth, something wicked inside him rearing its head. 

“Why are you so convinced that it is?” he murmurs, reaching up to thumb the sharp curve of Viktor’s cheekbone. “Have you not been satisfied?” Yuuri tucks a strand of hair behind Viktor’s ear and then strokes the curve of it, watching in fascination as the blood rushes to it, suffusing it pink. 

“N-no,” Viktor stammers. His cheeks are a beautiful pink as well; it's a quicker reaction than Yuuri usually gets from him, like this body is beyond even Viktor's control.

“Hmmm,” Yuuri says, victorious.

Viktor groans quietly, and puts his head back down on Yuuri's chest. 

 

Yuuri and Viktor both have a rest day today, so Yakov is at the rink with Yuri. Yuuri figures he should give them a heads up in case this is a problem that doesn't fix itself in a day.

Yuuri video calls Yuri, figures he'll get a call back later at the least if he's busy. Instead, Yuri picks up after two rings. 

“What,” Yuri demands. His face fills the screen, scowling and familiar.

“Hello, Yurio,” Yuuri says.

“Yura!” Viktor says brightly, propping his head on Yuuri's shoulder and waving with curled fingers. 

“... _What_ ,” Yuri says after a beat, in a completely different tone of voice. 

“Is Yakov free?” Yuuri asks politely. “We thought we should update him.” 

The video darts away dizzyingly and resolves into a sideways image of Yuri’s skate as Yuri drops his hand, shouting for Yakov from somewhere above. A moment later they see half of Yakov’s face with a view up his nostril, before Yuri grumbles and helps him adjust the angle. 

Yakov takes one look at Viktor and says, in tones of great horror, “No. No, no, no. Once was enough — I am an old man, with a weak heart.”

“I thought you don't have one, Yakov,” Viktor says with a grin. “Besides, this can't be worse than the week Yura was a kitten.”

“THAT NEVER HAPPENED,” they hear in a distant bellow. “I KNOW YOU'RE MAKING THAT UP.”

“We put a ribbon on you, you were very sweet!” Viktor calls cheerfully, in response to which they get several incoherent sounds of frothing rage.

“You will fix this?” Yakov demands. When Viktor opens his mouth, presumably to assure him off all the ways in which they will be fixing this, in various and creative positions, Yakov shakes his head hurriedly. “I don't want to know anything, close your mouth. And I was talking to Yuuri anyway, Vitya; _him_ I trust.”

Yakov’s furrowed brow reminds Yuuri of one time they had all gone out for dinner together. While Viktor spent the night tormenting Yuri with languid amusement, Yakov had settled himself next to Yuuri and proceeded to complain about Viktor's role in six separate wrinkles on his face, every third gray hair on his head, the total lack of respect his skaters (read: Yuri) had for him, and global warming. There had been a lot of vodka involved.

Oddly, Yuuri had come away from that conversation convinced he was being weighed and warned: _be careful with him_ , said the glint in Yakov’s eyes, the white-knuckled squeeze of his hand around his glass. 

“I'll fix it,” Yuuri says calmly, warmed by the stern nod he gets in response. 

Yuri takes back the phone and levels them with a narrow-eyed glare. “How old are you?” When he gets his response, he adds immediately, “Come here. Let's skate.” His voice rings with the intensity of someone proposing a fistfight to the death in a parking garage instead. 

Yuuri has always half-suspected that while beating current Viktor is a goal for Yuri, what he really craves is the chance to stack up against sixteen-year-old Viktor, who is out of reach, yet whose memory he is meant to supplant. An even playing field, perhaps. 

Viktor blinks a few times, and then raises his eyebrow at Yuuri.

Yuuri sighs. “I'll get the keys,” he says. 

 

“You're supposed to be resting,” Yakov says when they get to the rink, folding his arms. 

Viktor shrugs. “I don't know, do you think anything I do in this body will stick?” he asks. “Really, I'm wondering — like if I cut my hair will I wake up with my hair two inches shorter, or if I get a tattoo or something — ”

“Oh, don't get philosophical on me,” Yakov says. “Go out there if you want.”

Viktor and Yuri spend some time skating around each other on the ice and trading friendly barbs, it looks like from where Yuuri is sitting. Their relationship is always a peculiar delight to watch from the outside — Viktor a clear mix of taunting amusement and unwavering affection Yuuri didn't even know was possible; Yuri nearly hissing at Viktor in rage one instant, circling his ankles in search of his attention and praise the next.

Eventually, it looks like they settle on Yuri’s Agape routine as common ground for their informal competition. Yuri skates it as beautifully as he always does — technically perfect, and sounding an emotional chime within Yuuri's chest. Watching Yuri skate leaves Yuuri in awe at times; but it also makes something prickle under his skin, the itch to do better, to _compete_. It's a gift he never thought to look for, but for which he is endlessly grateful.

When Viktor begins the routine, Yuuri sits up in his seat. 

It isn't perfect. _Viktor_ hasn't been practicing it endlessly for a year, for one; for another, he seems to be forgetting what his height is in this body, the shakiness of his landings a testament to the difference in the build of his legs. 

But his skating is still something that steals the breath from Yuuri's lungs, and looking like this, he pings something in the worshipful twelve-year-old buried inside Yuuri's mind.

In fact, Yuuri would say he looks like he stepped out of one of the posters Yuuri had on his walls, if not for an odd edge Yuuri can see in his skating — something withdrawn, longing and real.

When Viktor's done, Yuuri makes his way closer to the ice and watches him skate to the edge with a wry look on his face. 

“Not my best, but I haven't had this body in a while, you know,” he says, shrugging. 

Yuri looks at him, expression unreadable, before he says, “If we were the same age, I would have crushed you every year.” And then his mouth quirks, and he adds grudgingly, “But I guess it wouldn't have been easy.” He punches Viktor's shoulder and then takes to the ice.

There's a flash of startled pleasure on Viktor's face, before it resolves into a smile that reaches for smugness yet falls short into fondness instead. 

“Home?” Yuuri asks, putting his hand on Viktor's back and stroking the curling tips of his hair. 

Viktor smiles at him — and there, again, is that odd glimpse of longing Yuuri had caught in his skating earlier — before he agrees, “Home.”

 

Yuuri has solemnly promised to fix this, but, well — as long as Viktor seems cheerfully unconcerned, Yuuri's going to have a hard time getting out of him whatever’s bothering him enough to wake up like this. It's better to just go along with things for now and keep paying attention. 

In some ways, they are still learning each other. Luckily, the one thing Yuuri has never lacked is perseverance. 

Yuuri makes himself a snack and turns the tv on, settling in to wait for Viktor to get out of the shower. When he does, he emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, barefoot and damp-haired. There is something distinctly predatory in his tread. 

Yuuri looks Viktor up and down, from his pale curling toes, to the top of his silvery head, for the sheer pleasure of doing so. Viktor's wearing pajama pants and nothing else — the apartment's not quite warm enough to warrant the shirtlessness, but it's usually the first thing to go when Viktor's in a mood to seduce. (“I'm _Russian_ ,” he has said more than once, as if the proclamation alone will keep him warm. His nipples, apparently lacking such nationalistic fervor, are drawn tight in the chill.)

Viktor meets Yuuri's eyes and doesn't say anything, just smiles a slow smile maddeningly attractive in its smugness. He stalks toward Yuuri and slides gracefully into his lap. Yuuri puts his arms around the unfamiliar weight of him — nearly as tall, but slimmer in the circle of his embrace — and drags his palm up the silky slope of Viktor's back. 

Viktor bends his head and kisses Yuuri. His mouth is hot and eager, and his hair falls around them in a humid, mint-scented curtain that makes Yuuri dizzy as he drags in breath after breath. 

Yuuri’s hands keep stroking through Viktor's hair as if with a mind of their own. Viktor laughs quietly into Yuuri's mouth and pulls away, smirking down at him. 

“I knew that was a thing,” he says, shifting his weight on Yuuri's lap teasingly. “Fulfilling some old fantasies?”

His smile is bright. There's something there, for an instant — like glimpsing a shadow out of the corner of your eye that disappears when you turn to face it. Yuuri’s afraid if he focuses on it too hard he won't be able to identify it, so he tucks it away to let the back of his mind think on it while he continues where he's at. 

Yuuri lets his hand smooth over the back of Viktor's head down to the ends of his hair. “I don't think I would have known what to do with you back then, to be honest,” he says wryly. Then he carefully gathers Viktor's hair into a rope in his fist, and pulls slowly, just tight enough to sting. “Although that's not a problem anymore, wouldn't you say?”

Viktor melts into him, boneless. Yuuri can see goosebumps of sensation rising up on his arms, the little hairs standing on end. “Mmhmm,” Viktor says, a languid, distracted exhalation of sound. He's visibly trying to pull the edges of his composure together, but his breath wafts out in hot pants against the curve of Yuuri's neck, and there's a pink flush rising in his cheeks. 

Like this, Viktor can't hide — and part of Yuuri wakes up, the part that tips Viktor's chin up so he can better see his tears, the part that wants to catalogue every stutter and misstep, everything real and vulnerable about Viktor, and swallow it whole. 

Yuuri pushes Viktor until he goes sprawling on his back along the length of the couch, wide-eyed and visibly hard. 

“Bed?” Yuuri says, and gets to his feet. 

Viktor takes his outstretched hand after a blinking moment, and follows him without a word. 

 

When Yuuri gets Viktor undressed and spread out on the bed, he has to take a moment to just look at him. He always does: a thorough memorization, filing it away for a rainy day. He can't help it; he's greedy for every bit of Viktor he has.

Viktor, arms spread like a snow angel, tightens his fingers in the sheet and visibly basks under Yuuri's eyes. There's something endearingly feline about Viktor — looking at him, Yuuri hands itch with the urge to pet and caress. 

“Come _here_ ,” Viktor says, propping himself up on an elbow, when his impatience gets the better of him. 

Yuuri goes: pushes Viktor's body back down flat with his own, indulges himself with the full-bodied skin-to-skin press, silken and hot. Viktor lets out a near-purr underneath him and traps Yuuri where he is, one long leg curled around Yuuri's, an arm snaking around Yuuri's back to curl blunt fingernails at his shoulder blade. Yuuri lets him play octopus for the moment, too busy investigating the petal-soft skin under his ear, down the pale column of his throat. Viktor bruises _beautifully_. Yuuri scrapes his thumbnail down Viktor's throat just for the pleasure of watching the skin pink up in his wake. 

Yuuri meets Viktor's eyes, molten and expectant. 

“Turn over,” Yuuri says. The _please_ is considered carefully and discarded. 

His validation comes in the speed with which Viktor obeys, limbs made clumsy with want. The slope of Viktor's back calls to him like a fresh sheet of ice: an invitation, a _plea_ , to leave his mark behind.

Viktor shivers minutely when Yuuri kisses the back of his neck and lingers there. His hair is mostly dry, but still has the heady intensity of scent only wet hair can carry. Yuuri drinks it in, mouth watering. 

Viktor jolts when Yuuri bites him at the juncture of his neck, not hard, but scraping with his teeth for the rawness of the sensation. Viktor moans low in his throat, and it reverberates there like it's trapped behind his teeth when Yuuri keeps biting a path down his back.

“Have you decided what you think?” Yuuri says, lips brushing against the sweet dip of Viktor's lower back. “Whatever I do to you now — do you think it'll stay with you when you change back?”

Viktor laughs, the sound straining at the edges with need. “I don't know,” he says, nearly panting between words. “I don't even know which answer I prefer.”

“Why's that?” Yuuri asks. He pulls Viktor's hips up a fraction higher. From the almost-whimper that escapes Viktor before being reined back in, he knows what's coming. 

“I always want to wake up with your mark on me,” Viktor says. “But if I don't — well, then you'll have no choice but to do it again.” His thighs are quivering, a fine, constant tremor. 

“ _That_ was never in question,” Yuuri says. His thumb rubs down Viktor's crease, exploratory.

“ _Please_ ,” Viktor bites out, beyond endurance at last; and at last Yuuri lowers his head.

He swipes his tongue down Viktor's crease, a slow languid tease that has Viktor writhing beneath him like a wild animal caught between his hands. Yuuri tightens his grip on Viktor's hips to keep him in place, thinks about those finger marks bruising up on him as well; the image draws a hum of satisfaction from him, vibrating against Viktor's skin.

Viktor sobs aloud. He's always been sensitive, and in this body, the onslaught of feeling must be dizzying. Yuuri wants to take him to the point of overwhelmed and further; he wants to pull the sobs from his throat in droves, until Viktor has nothing left to hide from him. 

He wants to spread Viktor open and get in him so deep that he flies apart at the seams; and so he does. 

Yuuri holds Viktor open with both thumbs. He laps at Viktor's hole broadly, firm rubbing pressure, the crinkled skin quivering under the flat of his tongue. The long strokes have Viktor squirming under him; when he works his tongue inside, Viktor's whole body bows forward, before he jerks in place and holds himself still: arching away from the touch because it's too much, pulling himself back toward it because he loves it. 

Everything is wet: Yuuri's mouth, his chin, Viktor's crease. It's probably dripping down to his balls too, that's how much Yuuri's drooling. The slick sound of his hungry mouth and tongue is clearly audible even under Viktor's rapid, open-mouthed breaths. It would make Yuuri's ears burn if he weren't so deep inside his own head, the place where his focus is contained and sharp, and the only thing that matters is pressing for more, more, _more_.

When Yuuri moves a hand to press the tip of his index finger into Viktor alongside his tongue, Viktor says Yuuri's name — the first thing he’s said aloud since Yuuri put his mouth on him. The rawness of the sound makes Yuuri’s thighs clench. His own arousal is a distant thing, circling hawklike ever closer: something to focus on when he is finished. 

Viktor is wet enough to work one finger in, but there's enough friction that's it's a slow push inside, clinging and fever-hot. The whole line of Viktor's body is trembling from head to toe. Yuuri wants to see his face, but the curve of his spine and the pink heat of the back of his neck peeping through his mussed tendrils of hair is too beautiful a sight to give up just yet. 

Testing his luck, Yuuri presses two fingertips to Viktor's entrance, waiting. 

“ _Yes_ ,” Viktor says, clipped and shaking. He says it again when Yuuri pushes in, and again when Yuuri spreads him open, and again and again while Yuuri eats him out thoroughly and ravenously; until Viktor jerks like a shot and half-collapses forward, head bowed.

“Did you — ” Yuuri says, lifting his head. Viktor always needs a hand to come, as thoroughly as the two of them have tried otherwise, for longer periods of time. 

“Yeah,” Viktor says after a moment of getting his breath back, with a ragged, self-deprecating laugh. “I guess stamina’s the one thing this body doesn't have going for it.”

And ah — it's there, swimming up from the back of Yuuri's mind, crystallizing before him. He's got his finger on it now. 

They're still learning each other, but here: another piece of the puzzle that is Viktor Nikiforov to slide into place.

Yuuri pulls away, leaving one hand on Viktor's waist to soothe. “Wait here,” he says, and gets off the bed to grab the lube. Viktor stays where Yuuri left him, though Yuuri catches him turning his head to keep Yuuri in his sights. 

When Yuuri returns, he doesn't say anything, just tugs at Viktor's hips until he gets the message and turns over onto his back, stretching his arms above his head to get the limberness back.

Yuuri could look at him until the world stops — long-limbed and pink in the cheeks, hair a silky mess around his head on the pillow, begging to be touched. Viktor's mouth is swollen like he's been biting it to keep quiet, thighs splayed open, cock half-hard and sticky with come. Yuuri wants to suck him clean and keep sucking him until he comes again, let it spill over him another time. 

Viktor lifts his chin and looks up at Yuuri, eyes half-lidded and smug. It isn't false, but it isn't everything that's there; like a lake frozen over, hiding what lives deep. 

Yuuri reaches out and puts his palm on Viktor's stomach. He _has_ to get this right. 

“Do you know how much I want you?” Yuuri says, voice a little raspy from disuse and arousal. “No — ” he says when Viktor's mouth opens a fraction, “ — that wasn't for you to answer.”

He kneels on the bed between Viktor's legs, puts his hands on Viktor's thighs. “Do you know,” he says, skimming his hands slowly upward, “that I've wanted you since I knew what that even meant? To want someone?” 

Viktor shifts; a stuttering breath escapes him, half-caught in his throat. Yuuri’s hands find the cut of Viktor's hips, linger there to feel the rapid tattoo of his pulse.

“And now,” Yuuri says, and laughs — a soft, disbelieving laugh. “It's all I think about some days, how beautiful you are. The way you look when you sleep, or when you skate. How strong your legs are, or your hands — god, your hands.” The hands in question flutter above Viktor's head like he wants to reach out, before he stills. 

“And your mouth,” Yuuri murmurs, one hand sliding up to rest on Viktor's heart, “when you smile at me, or when you're pleased with yourself.” 

Viktor turns his head to the side on his pillow so Yuuri can see the corded muscle in his neck. His mouth is pressed in a tight line, eyes screwed shut. Self-contained. 

Yuuri gathers a fistful of his hair and _pulls_. Viktor's head turns, eyes flying open. They're brimming with tears that glitter on the thick spread of his lashes, spill down his cheeks as Yuuri watches. 

Yuuri smiles. He hopes it looks, to Viktor, as tender as Yuuri feels. As hungry.

“The way you look when I make you cry,” Yuuri says softly, and bends his head to kiss the glistening tear tracks on Viktor's cheek, salt on his lips. 

Viktor cries out, a low wounded noise. He is coming apart in front of Yuuri's eyes, like a wave breaking on sand. Yuuri will catch and contain the spill of him, help him pull himself back together again when they're finished. 

“And do you know,” Yuuri whispers into Viktor's ear, steeling himself, “how much I love you?”

This part is harder, somehow: words of emotion over words of want. Yuuri can master his embarrassment when talking about all the ways he wants Viktor, wants to touch him, but with love — the instinct to curl around his own feelings and let no one see is an old habit, hard to break. 

But he can't _not_. The only possible response to the gift of Viktor's vulnerability is vulnerability in turn. 

“Yuuri,” Viktor says, a wavering exhale of his name like he has nothing else in him. _No more_ , his body says, curling back into the bed; and _more_ his hands plead, clutching at Yuuri's shoulders like he won't let anything tear him away. 

Yuuri will be ruthless. He has learned to be, for Viktor. 

“Everything about you,” Yuuri says, pulling back so he can see Viktor's face. “Even the things I'm still learning, or the things I don't understand. How brave you are, and how brave you make _me_.” 

Viktor is still blinking through his tears, scattering more down his cheeks with every sweep of his eyelashes. 

Yuuri feels a surge of tenderness run through him, tightening his throat. Before Viktor, he didn't know it was possible to feel this way about someone: to want to see them cracked open for you, to do it yourself; and at the same time feel the need to wrap them up and hold them so nothing can ever touch them again.

“And the things you can't do!” Yuuri says, and laughs, all joy. “You have no idea what to do with people when they're emotional, and you're stubborn and smug and you think you're right most of the time. You're a vain idiot stumbling through life like the rest of us, and I love you for it.”

Yuuri smiles down at Viktor. “I could never have dreamed up those parts of you when I was a kid, you know? You're nothing like what I would have expected — and it's the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Yuuri feels gloriously unfettered; like this is necessary not only for Viktor to hear, but for Yuuri to say, to know he is _capable_ of saying. The sunrise dawning on Viktor's face makes him almost too bright to look at. 

“Perfection can stay on my walls,” Yuuri says, striking home. “Everything that's really you — that's all that I want.”

Yuuri had thought about what it might look like if it happened while he was watching — had half-facetiously wondered if it would be a Beauty and the Beast-like transformation, glowing and all. 

Instead, it changes in a blink, unseen: Viktor, grown, lying where Yuuri has put him with his arms thrown above his head. The shell-shocked vulnerability is the same. The tears are still there. 

Yuuri exhales shakily, and closes his eyes.

When he opens them a moment later, Viktor is pushing himself up on his elbows, mouth working like he's searching for the words to force out, though he clearly has nothing. 

“Shhh,” Yuuri says, already leaning forward, “just — ”

The kiss is a blind, clumsy thing, searing in its need. Yuuri plants a hand on the bed next to Viktor's shoulder and lets Viktor pull him down until he's collapsed onto Viktor's chest, everything a skin-hot press and a tangle of limbs. Yuuri's arousal has banked and neither of them are hard, but his whole body is still prickling with sensitivity. Wrapped up in the cradle of Viktor's thighs, kissing him and kissing him until their mouths are numb, Viktor clinging to him like even skin-to-skin isn't close enough: it doesn't take them long to get there. 

Yuuri comes first, thrusting against Viktor's stomach until he spills; it tears through him like an earthquake, shaking him from head to toe. Viktor pets his hair through it, pressing damp fervent kisses to the top of his head, what little of Yuuri's face he can reach, until Yuuri regains himself enough to lift his head and meet Viktor's mouth. 

Viktor's lower lip feels as tender as a bruised peach under Yuuri's tongue. Yuuri takes it between his teeth, gently at first, but with increasing pressure until Viktor gasps open-mouthed and rolls his hips up into Yuuri's, searching. 

Yuuri sits up. One hand he slides into Viktor's hair, the other reaching down to circle Viktor's cock, stiff and hot. Viktor arches into his touch with his hips, rolling his head back to get Yuuri's hand deeper into his hair. 

“Hmmm,” Yuuri says, meeting Viktor's eyes, a smile tugging at his lips. One hand tightens in Viktor's hair. “Still long enough to pull,” he says, and does. 

Viktor laughs: an explosion of relief, an outlet of emotion more than anything else, Yuuri knows. He keeps laughing, a hiccuping laugh caught low in his throat as Yuuri strokes his cock, until finally he arches and comes over Yuuri's hand and wrist. 

Yuuri wipes his hand on the sheet, and strokes Viktor's side until his breathing slows down. 

At last Viktor meets his eyes, looking so happy Yuuri's eyes sting, and a little wondering. 

“I didn't know,” Viktor says, and laughs again, covering his face. “I mean I did, a little, but — I didn't really _know_ that that's what was bothering me. How did you know?”

Yuuri looks down at Viktor: flushed, smiling a dazed little smile, rumpled and real. 

“I'm learning you,” Yuuri says. “And I'm not done yet.”


End file.
